


Strategist.

by slasher48



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ableism, Autistic Castiel, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Episode: s06e20 The Man Who Would Be King, Gen, M/M, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:11:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slasher48/pseuds/slasher48
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything and everyone expects so much of Castiel (that he cannot give).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strategist.

Sitting in the corner of his favorite compartment of Heaven, the breeze whirling past his Form as the autistic man flew his kite, Castiel sighed.

 _“ **God** had faith in **you** , Castiel”_ _said Rachel._

_“O brilliant Castiel, you must lead us now,” said Jedadiah._

_And others had spoken, a cacophony of voices begging him for guidance and assuring him of their belief._

_“We have heard tell of your skill, but you have surpassed expectations.”_

_“Raphael will be no match for you, of course! You were **chosen**.”_

How wrong they were. How very, very wrong. He could still feel the curdling cracks in his Form where Raphael had torn into him and beaten him thoroughly.

The end of Heaven, or Earth, or both, was upon him if he did not act, and he, Castiel, “God’s favorite”, had no idea what to do. At the end of this day, one day of Earth time, everything he and those he had fought with had fought _for_ would meet the same end before denied it.

 

They would be disappointed. Everyone.

Well, they would be dead before too long, but before that, yes. They would think him a failure. Loathe him as he’d never before been loathed.

He’d been known for millennia as one of the best strategists the Host could offer. And here the world would end because he could not create a plan to prevent it.

A failure, indeed. A rebel with a cause, who would “go down swinging”, as Dean had said so many times, and forfeit Earth in the process of his defeat.

 _Dean_. Dean would help. Dean would want to—

Castiel left Heaven hurriedly and went to where Dean had been last.

Something inside him recoiled from Dean’s idle peace. He almost flew from it reflexively.

There was the man who had bloodied himself against his prized possession, by his loved one’s hand, to save his species.

He raked in an ill-conceived manner, crushing more than grabbing any leaves, and Castiel’s Grace reached for him, but.

But he was at peace. He deserved peace—all of humanity did, and if Dean could not have Sam, maybe he could keep this at least. Maybe Castiel could do that for him.

He _was_ one of the best strategists, wasn’t he? What blasphemy it was for him even to suggest needing Dean for this.

Where he stood, Castiel frowned, hands in pockets, a kind of deep loss and a craving more deep than that of Famine both taking hold of his True Form and slowing his vessel’s intent for departure.

It was many minutes before Dean made any progress, and Castiel felt discomfort—shame perhaps, realizing he’d wasted time he could have spent saving the life of this man and every other like him on Earth, simply watching.

Glancing at the ground but then quickly to Dean again, Castiel was unprepared for the sly voice behind him.

It was unwelcome, to say the least.

He humored the demon, anyway, for now, somewhat glad to turn away from everything he saw, close enough to touch but yet as unreachable as the Father Himself.


End file.
